


Lightning in a Jar

by days4daisy



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 18th Century Flirtation, M/M, Season/Series 03, Storms, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Whims are funny things indeed.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mnemosyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/gifts).



Malaise is the word for this condition. 

Andre finds New York tedious. The pageantry and falseness in less-than-subtle gazes. Inebriated braggarts, foolish schmoozers, calculated glances of the politically ambitious. Andre is a master of the social game, but he has come to hate it despite its necessity.

Maintaining standing within New York is a frustrating but necessary toil. Especially now that his counterpart has risen in the esteem of the commander in chief. No doubt, Tallmadge will grow more bold in his attempts to sabotage Andre's efforts. The death of William Bradford is proof, as is Washington's loss of favor with General Lee.

Andre still has his ace up the sleeve, of course. His prized project, General Arnold. A man he despises as much as he covets. There is much work to do, and little safety - even under the protective cover of York City.

Then, there is Miss Shippen, lost to him. And Miss Cheer, found again. A monastery of the mind, prepared to crumble at the slightest whim.

Andre sits alone against the back wall of the coffee house. Legs crossed, closed to would-be dalliances. His notebook rests on his knee, pencil stroking the open page. By his hand, hair threads back in a neat tie. It is not Miss Shippen's face.

Outside, rain batters glass and brick. Horses clop down muddy streets.

Inside, the room resounds with laughter and clanking mugs. Candles glow from chandeliers overhead, a gold coin warmth on rosy faces. At the door, bar maids remove coats of newcomers shuddering in from the storm. Fire pulses in the hearth. Coy smiles meet leering stares.

Andre wills himself to sink into the wall cracks. He once craved the attention he now feels from various corners, but they are no match for what he has known. The love duty bid him to leave behind.

Andre looks at the open page before him. When he began this evening, his muse was in his mind. The pride of Philadelphia. His pencil coaxed the soft curve of cheeks. A chestnut slope of eyes. A thin, secret smile. But the jaw became a strict line. Hair, bowed back in a simple braid. A strong neck, descending into black waistcoat and white shirt. Rivington's partner. A monastic pursuit. 

Townsend stands behind the inn's counter. His eyes are downcast, focused on something beyond Andre's view. He pauses to sip from his coffee mug.

 _The good thing about your monastery is that it's in your head._ Presumptuous, Townsend. It was refreshing to be jostled with little care for rank or station. Others in Townsend's position would not be so casual with an officer of the British Militia.

At first, Andre thought to blame Townsend's brashness on Rivington. But it's clear now that Townsend shows the newsman no favor. Rivington, to him, is little more than an opportunity to exploit. An egotist who relishes reporting his own successes above all else. Andre shares this opinion of Rivington, and approves of Townsend for his open disdain. Robert Townsend, the entrepreneur. An interesting diversion.

Andre glances at Townsend again. Be it fortune or misfortune, Townsend's eyes meet his at the same time. His head cocks, openly curious. Thin mouth, a slight smile. 

Andre rises from his seat. Crossing the room is a perilous affair, dodging tightly pressed chairs and ale-stained patches of floor. Safely through the melee, Andre hands his cup to one of the counter men. "Madeira," he says. He does not wait for it, moving to the inn's front desk. 

Townsend follows Andre's approach, gaze flickering amusement. "Quite the journey for a second drink," he remarks. "If you'd hailed, they would have brought it to you. Spared your seat." Which is now occupied, Andre notes, by a mustached man in a white waistcoat. The buttons along the midsection look close to bursting.

"The location wasn't ideal," Andre reasons. "Besides, you all seem rather busy up here." He glances over the edge of Townsend's counter for whatever held his attention previously

"Nothing to interest you, major," Townsend assures him. Before Andre can dispute it, he lifts a small book from behind the counter. "A Geneva bible," Townsend explains. "A gift for my father when he arrives this week."

"Your father," Andre echoes. "Does he live in the city?"

"Oh no. Too crowded for his tastes." Townsend turns pages slow enough for Andre to peek inside. Its paper is worn to a delicate cream. The words, strict footed black script in neat columns. "His home is in Oyster Bay. I journey out that way for holidays, mainly."

"Too quiet for your tastes?" Andre guesses.

Townsend smiles. "My tastes are...eclectic."

"I'm sure." The quick exchange warms Andre. Matching wits with a worthy adversary is what drew him to Townsend in the beginning. "You're a Quaker then."

"I am."

Andre accepts the delivery of his wine from a counter man with a nod. He raises his glass. "Can Quakers share a drink?"

"Wine is no issue for my faith," Townsend says. "But reveling in my own profits is an issue for my business." He lifts his mug. "Coffee is cheaper."

Andre toasts him with a wry smile. "I suppose I can't argue that." He sips, the Madeira smooth on his tongue. Good for this type of establishment. Not the finest quality import, but worthy of savoring. A bit like the entrepreneur. Unrefined but intriguing. 

"Were you engaged in the arts before inquiring after a refill?" Townsend asks.

"Not my finest efforts," Andre answers casually. Townsend's brows rise with interest.

Thunder cracks over the city like a whip lashing skin. The building's foundation shudders. A murmur rises from he assembled, followed by laughter and relieved sighs. Fresh rain pounds the streets, dirt stewing under its barrage.

Townsend's eyes shift to the ceiling. "Not a fan of storms?" Andre wonders.

"Not a fan of anything that threatens my business," Townsend tells him. "Einstein would find me a bore, I'm afraid." A call to their previous night's conversation. A shared joke between them.

"He would find a way to enlighten you, I'm sure" Andre replies.The awful pun hangs between them. Townsend sips from his mug, feigning ignorance. The seconds drag on.

Townsend finally cracks, a smirk left by his descending cup. "That is too awful for response," he remarks.

Andre smiles. "Agreed. But necessary."

"Questionable," Townsend counters. His eyes dance in the firelight. 

A monastery of the mind, victim to a man's fancies. Inexplicable yet immediate. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Townsend pursues a new direction. "How goes your commitment to monastic endeavors? Has this evening helped your cause?"

"This evening's lack of engaging conversation, you mean?" Townsend nods, with a gaze that could be called 'sly.' Andre rests an elbow on the counter. Closing their distance, ever subtle. "No whims thus far." Andre pauses for a sip. "But the night, dreary though it is, is still young."

Behind them, a shout goes up over a game of chess. Accusations of foul play as on-lookers stoke tempers. A couple redress themselves in cloaks and shuffle out into the storm.

"Do you have any weaknesses, Robert?" Andre asks. It is the first time he can remember using Townsend's first name.

Townsend senses the change, a curious glance as he considers the question. "Whims, you mean?"

"Temptation differs with every man's hunger."

Townsend shrugs. "We all have our weaknesses. I have my share of them."

An honest answer for a man of faith. Andre offers approval with a twitch of his mouth. "I hope none of them are women," he says.

Townsend smiles knowingly. "I commiserate with your plight, sir. You have my sympathies." Andre wants more than his sympathies. Herein lies his greatest weakness. 

There was a time when stimulating conversation would have been enough. A tease of the tongue, insinuations whispered over shared drinks. A laugh or two, eyes hot under the lick of candle flame. But Andre's tastes demand more now after his many liaisons. He peaked in Philadelphia, with the prize above all others. The woman who may wait for him, or who may have given up on him for good...

God, Andre hates this city. Its one satisfaction is, in itself, unsatisfactory. The entrepreneur is a diversion with limits. Andre's weakness demands more.

"Thank you, Robert," he says. 

He retreats across the still-buzzing room to reclaim his recently abandoned seat. A pair of ladies track Andre's approach, greeting him with hopeful smiles. In passing glances, men evaluate his worth. Some nod, deeming his uniform honorable. Others smell the newness of Andre's status; the self-made man with no family name or estate. They turn their noses up at him. 

Andre does not care. He has become something despite humble beginnings. Perhaps, at times, his status has grown beyond its worth. 

He flips through the early pages of his notebook. Miss Shippen's solemn eyes judge him in white and gray.

He looks up at a bottle tilted invitingly before him. Madeira. Andre lifts his cup for Townsend's refill. "On the house," Townsend says.

Andre arches a brow. "That may eat into your profits."

"A worthy sacrifice." Townsend glances at the open notebook in Andre's lap. "Consider it my contribution to the arts." 

What would Townsend's reaction have been to his own sketched face looking back at him?

Andre lifts his filled glass. "To inspiration then."

"And a world of possibility," Townsend adds. He offers a smile before returning to his post at the counter.

Andre turns pages on his journal. His pencil frames Townsend's sketched face. Possibility is inspiring. And inspiration leads to possibility.

Outside, thunder peals across rooftops. The building shivers like hands on a lover's spine. The assembled laugh, cheering on nature's volley. Andre finds Townsend's eyes waiting for him. Bemused, Townsend shakes his head. A candle on the chandelier winks out in a breath of smoke. 

Andre pictures him upstairs, undressing by the light of a single flame. The slim figure that must wait beneath his wrapping, skin given color by the swaying glow. He sees their mouths meeting by the window as the storm roars beyond it. A shared chuckle as the building quakes. Townsend's body warm, purring energy beneath Andre's fingers.

A sudden flash pierces through fog-hazed windows. It sparks across his page, igniting Townsend's paper-white skin. 

"Lightning in a jar," Andre muses. Whims are funny things indeed.

*The End*


End file.
